When

During my endometriosis battle, a sister-in-law gave birth to the first grandson. She had struggled with PCOS since age 13. After she married, her gynecologist informed her she would never be able to have children. Undaunted, she switched gynecologists. Her new gynecologist ran tests and pondered the PCOS, then told my sister-in-law that he thought it wouldn’t be a problem for her to get pregnant. After half a year of Clomid, she did get pregnant.

Despite knowing of her wrestle with PCOS, I was still sorrowed. I tried to glory in her success, but secretly, the childish reaction was stronger: she had a baby and I didn’t. We always try to rise above our human responses to act better than we really feel—every other church lesson has something along the lines of this theme. And I was happy for her. Yet… {Insert lips in a Charlie Brown squiggly line here.} So now I was dealing with being happy for my sister-in-law, being ambivalently miserable, and on top of that feeling guilty because I couldn’t rise above being the “natural man.” Being LDS and infertile is great, ain’t it?

The inevitable invitation to go to the hospital to visit my sister-in-law came. I went—just for her. I wanted to congratulate her, because really, having PCOS and being able to have a baby really is cause to celebrate. She looked great, and I felt myself soften into a sincere joy for her as I hugged her. Then, came something I wasn’t prepared for.

My other sister-in-law picked up the baby and plonked him in my arms.

Uh… I could feel myself pausing. Since I had discovered my having endometriosis, I had avoided babies to protect myself emotionally; it just seemed easier than dealing with the unavoidable sadness of getting attached to something I couldn’t have. There he lay in my arms, dozing serenely in blue blankets. I looked into his face and braced myself to feel bitterness or resentment or dejection or something like that. But I didn’t. My soul was quieted and I felt peace peel off of him and seep into me.

Does the story end happily? Of course, not. Without the bitterness and angst at which I am so good feeling, all my fight was gone. I was drained. I couldn’t fight any more. What was left was the melancholy. I handed my nephew back to my sister-in-law and smiled emptily. Over the next few days, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking one thing.

When? When will it be my turn?